Destined
by chocolatemooses
Summary: Call it coincidence or call it fate, either way, some lives are destined to be inextricably intertwined. Pre-TDK. Joker-centric *Chapter 4: The recently appointed EADA Harvey Dent prosecutes a frightening new criminal.*
1. Jim Gordon

Title: Destined  
Author: chocolatemooses  
Chapter: Jim Gordon  
Disclaimer: Like I own anything.

AN: So this idea came from my parents, who grew up on opposite sides of the world, Korea and Puerto Rico, but met in Los Angelos on a family vaction. Any way, it got me thinking that there must be so many random meetings in our life that there is a possiblity of meeting someone randomly who would later become incredibly important in your life in the future. So this is a little collection of loosely related one-shots that illustrate times that Jack Napier, the future Joker, met key players from the Dark Knight. Please read and review!

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Call it coincidence or call it fate, either way, some lives are destined to be inextricably intertwined.

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"Hey, Jim."

Detective Jim Gordon looked up from his desk with tired eyes, his face sunken in from numerous sleepless nights. Only two months on the job and he was already feeling worn down by the responsibility and the pressures. His wife had been begging him to take it easy, to slow down and he would always promise her that he would. But then some broken hearted little kid with murdered parents would walk in the bullpen or some sad young woman who had been raped, and they would look at him with their half-dead eyes and he would forget about all of his promises to Barbra and throw himself back into the underbelly of Gotham.

Detective Ramirez gave Gordon a look that clearly said, 'Rookie, you are going to get royally screwed right now'. "You know that kid they just brought in?"

He was wary about his reply, really not wanting to get stuck with any extra paperwork. "Yeah."

Ramirez gave him the buddy-buddy eyebrows, the ones that said 'you should probably just say yes to whatever I am about to ask'. "Do you think you could take his statement? I am really not good with kids and I saw the way you handled the Wayne kid a few weeks ago, you're a natural."

The steady pounding that had started in his head began to get a little louder and yet Gordon still wanted to slam his head into the wood of his desk. He was nice to one kid and suddenly he's Mister Mom, perfect. He craned his neck and saw a little boy with blonde hair, sitting in the Chief's office. The little guy was tiny, probably malnourished, and Gordon could tell, even from a distance, that the kid was probably covered in bruises. It broke his heart to see a child so broken, and broke it even more to know that there were hundreds of kids just like this one who he couldn't save.

Taking a soothing breathe, he sighed, "Yeah, sure. I just don't wanna get stuck with the paperwork, okay."

Ramirez slapped him heartily on the back, "Sure, no problem. Thanks, man." Gordon, nodded his head, he liked Ramirez and the guy deserved a break, especially since he had a brand new baby girl at home. It was hard enough seeing a kid so wrecked but to have one of your own probably made it ten times worse.

Feeling like he was heading to a root canal, he grabbed a notebook and shuffled over to the boy. The poor kid looked scared out of his wits and Gordon immediately noticed that he was still wearing the bloody shirt that he had on when they had brought him in. A sense of anger overwhelmed him, as he considered how frightened the little guy must be, still covered in his parent's blood. He promised himself that he would get him cleaned up as soon as he took his statement.

"Hey," Gordon said as he approached the boy. The kid jumped at least a foot in the air, before breaking off in nervous giggles. "Hey, hey. It's okay," he put a hand on the boy's shoulder to steady him, noting that the kid was as cold as ice. "My name's Gordon. What's yours?"

The boy looked up at him with brown eyes, full of fear, confusion, and just a twinge of anger. "Jack." He replied in a whisper.

"Hi Jack." He struck out his hand, hoping to gain a little camaraderie by treating the kid like an adult, Lord knows he had been through more shit than most other adults he knew. His hand was shaking a little as he grabbed Gordon's. "Woah," he said, in mock surprise. "That is some handshake you got there." He sounded stupid but the kid seemed to like the compliment because the corners of his mouth twitched just a little.

"Listen, Jack. I am going to need you to be a big boy now. Can you do that?" There was a pause, as though the boy was really debating between helping or not. Eventually, he nodded in ascent. "Great." Gordon smiled at the boy enthusiastically. Pulling out a notepad and pencil and continued, "Okay, Jack. I'm going to need you to tell me what happened today."

There was a long silence in which the boy swung his legs in the air and studiously avoided eye contact with the police officer. It was nearly three minutes later when the boy finally spoke. His tongue flicked out from his mouth and he wet his cracked lips. "My mommy is dead."

Gordon's heartstrings were tugged by the desolate tone of the boy's voice, he sounded far too jaded for a kid of seven. "I know, son, I know. But I need you to tell me exactly what happened, we need to know so we can help you. Do you understand?" Jack nodded and licked his lips again.

"Father came home and…Mommy…Mommy was out buying groceries, he…_hates _it when Mommy leaves the house without telling him." The boy gave a special emphasis to the word hate that sent chills down Gordon's spine. What kind of hell has this kid been through? The boy continued on, his voice now a little lighter, like he was reciting a bedtime story. "I was hiding in my closet, so Father wouldn't find me. He never looks in my closet," Jack seemed to have lost focus of the story and trailed off, "I have all sorts of things in my closet, it's safe there. I keep my comics and my rock collection, I have this really cool green rock, and," He paused, a shadow crossed over his face and for a second he looked far more sinister than any seven-year-old should, "…and the pocket knife my grandpa gave me before he died."

"That's very cool," Gordon said in a placating voice, half of him not wanting to steer the conversation back to the murder of his parents but knowing he had to. "So what happened when your mommy came home?"

Jack averted his gaze, his tongue now flicking in and out of his mouth at surprising speed. "Father wasn't happy when Mommy came home. He hit her. He called her…a…umm….whore." He now looked up unapologetically at the cop. Gordon nodded in non-judgmental understanding. "He has hit her before but for some reason he went off…" He paused searching for the right word in his limited little boy vocabulary. "…crazier…than usual. He hit her and hit her and hit her until she stopped moving. I saw it…all from the, uhh, stairs." The boy was now keeping Gordon's gaze evenly, his eyes emotionless. "He didn't see me…or Grandpa's knife. Grandpa always hated Father, said he was a no-good, son of a bitch." Gordon nodded, he had to agree with the grandfather's observation. Jack continued, unperturbed by the dark content of his little story, "So, I crept closer to Father and I…stabbed the knife into his neck." He patted the nape of his neck, "Right here. I think Grandpa would've been…happy." Gordon's eyes were stinging now from both horror and sorrow. "I killed my Father, I'm not supposed to do things like that." He tilted his head to his side, looking every bit of the child he was. "Should I be sorry?"

In that moment, Gordon knew he had to take care of this kid. If Jack wasn't looked after and loved, who knows what kind of man he would grow up to be? This boy was well on his way to becoming a really messed up individual. "You don't have to be sorry. You were trying to save your life and your mommy's life." The boy's expression changed so suddenly that it caused Gordon to flinch. Jack's face quickly transformed from sad curiosity to amusement, seconds later he was laughing bodily, drawing attention from everyone in the squad.

Trying to shake off his fear, he gently hoisted up the giggling boy by his shoulders and led him to the door where a weary looking social worker had been standing for the past two minutes. "Come on, Jack. This lady will get you cleaned up and settled." He gave his hand to the somber looking woman before whispering to her, "I want to know where this boy is and who has him, I will take full responsibility for him. Just keep me in the loop."

The woman nodded and told him she would do her best. A few weeks later, Gordon would find out that her best was a quickly scrawled memo that informed him that little Jack Napier had been lost in the shuffle and she was no longer assigned to his case. It would also inform him that despite her "best" efforts she was unable to locate his new foster home and that it was likely he wasn't even in Gotham anymore.

Gordon wouldn't hear that little boy speak again for another twenty years.

The social worker led the little boy away, who was now happily chatting with the woman. The last little snippet of conversation Gordon was able to catch, before the hum of the bullpen drowned the boy out, was, "Ms. Harner? Why so serious?"

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AN: Love it? Hate it with a passion of a thousand suns? Let me know. Up next, a little childhood meeting with Rachel Dawes.


	2. Rachel Dawes

Title: Destined  
Author: chocolatemooses  
Chapter: Rachel Dawes  
Disclaimer: Do I look like someone cool enough to own Batman?

AN: First off, I'd like to thank my awesome reviewers. You guys are balls-to-walls awesome, you're reviews kicked me in the ass (in a good way) and demanded that I sit down and write this chapter. Secondly, I just want to say that writing Rachel was incredibly difficult. I am not a huge fan of her character (although I attribute a lot of that to Katie Holmes because I thought Maggie Gyllenhaal's Rachel was less annoying but still...). My characterization of her is based on an interview I read where Ms. Gyllenhaal said that Rachel was basically a spoiled brat who grew up to be a pretty good person (paraphrasing). So, I don't know. Please tell me if you thought I wrote her okay but be gentle, I really am going to plan to never write her again. Thirdly, if someone could tell me what college Bruce went to in "Batman Begins" that would be great, I am too lazy to go searching all over the Internet. So if you know it off the top of your head it would really be helpful. Finally, let me all know what you thought of teen aged Joker, I find it hard to characterize a character when I am not telling it from their point of view so you will have to pay attention to subtle actions he makes. Also, I didn't want to make him too sinister, I mean yes, he is the Joker, a psycho killer, but I don't think he would have gotten all the way to that point at eighteen, but give it time. So just read and review, and I will be happy happy. Thanks!

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The night was dark and the air held a whisper of danger as it travelled across the dimly lit Gotham streets. Wandering the Gotham streets during daylight hours had always been a fairly risky endeavor but at night it was practically suicide. Gangs, robbers, and worse; found solace in the shadows and lawlessness essentially ran the poor neighborhoods. The few poor souls who found themselves lost among the maze of roads and looming apartment buildings usually ended up, at the very least, robbed, beaten and left for dead. At worst, dead.

On a typical Gotham night, one such soul happened to be sixteen-year-old and over privileged runaway, Rachel Dawes. She shivered as the cool air hit her bare arms and wished that she had thought to bring a jacket when she had made her great escape. The remembrance of the harsh words spouted by both herself and her parents brought resolve to the extremely frightened girl and she shook off the fear, rubbed her goose-bump covered arms, and continued her trek through Gotham's underbelly. She couldn't understand why her parents were so set on her attendance at that stupid prep-school. Her eyes blazed with annoyance and determination; she wanted to be with real people, not those blonde-haired, buttoned-up drones. Sure, she knew the importance of a good education but who can learn in that clinically sterile environment, she felt like she was suffocating and she had to break away just to be able to breathe properly.

Walking the deserted streets, Rachel began to question the logic of running away. She knew from the moment she packed a backpack that the idea was juvenile and ridiculous but she was tired of always acting like an adult. She wanted her parents to worry, to be frantic for a few hours. Maybe then they would let her change schools. Or, maybe they will just ship her off to some boarding school. Anything was better than Gotham Prep School for Girls.

She once again tried to decipher the badly graphitized street signs, unable to tell where she was. The sounds of Gotham began to break through her angry haze. The cries of small children, the loud arguments of angry couples, and a few screams carried through the air and chilled her bones. She was beginning to feel an overwhelming sense of fear as the dire situation she was in came into stark realization. She was a young girl wandering the Gotham streets late at night with no protection against the hundreds of criminals and deviants that could overpower her with little trouble at all. She felt like a stupid child who had thrown a tantrum. And her childish tantrum was now becoming more and more dangerous. All she wanted to do now was find a way to get back to her safe home…if she could only figure out where that was.

"You know…pretty girls like you could get into lots of _trouble_ walking around all…alone this late at night."

Rachel jumped half out of her skin and whirled around but found that the streets behind her were deserted. She cautiously glanced to the side and saw, in the shadows of a darkened alley, the figure of a tall man leaning casually against the brick. She quickly reached into the purse and grabbed onto the handle of her hairbrush.

"I-I have a gun." Her fingers were now tightly gripped on the hairbrush, praying to God that the situation wouldn't require any more bluffing.

The shadowed head cocked to the side. The man's voice was teasing yet dark as he replied, "Hmmm…I doubt that is true."

"Why would you doubt that?" She despised the way her voice shook and the way her hands trembled, she hated feeling so scared and helpless.

The man let out a laugh that was low and chilling, scaring her more than anything had ever scared her in her life. It wasn't particularly different than any other laugh she had heard before but there was some meaning behind it that was dark and sinister, something she didn't quite understand. Like he was laughing at a particularly dirty joke made at her expense. She was certain that her knuckles must be white with the iron fisted grip that she used to hold onto the useless brush.

As the man laughed he stepped out of the shadows, his face and frame becoming instantly bathed in the dim street lights. Her eyes widened in surprise. He wasn't as old as she had expected, he was actually pretty close to her age, eighteen maybe nineteen. And he was unexpectedly handsome; blonde, wavy hair that ended an inch above his shoulders and light brown eyes that were dancing with mischief under the rusty orange lights. He seemed taller now as he stood upright, his wiry frame seemed to ripple with unused power and Rachel felt herself take a few unconscious steps backward.

"I doubt…that a little girl like you would have a," he paused, licking his thin lips with his grotesquely pink tongue, carefully tracing each crack on his lips with careful stroked before continuing, "…gun because I can see the…mmm…fear in your pretty eyes." His face contorted into a smile, part teasing part malevolent. "I can see…that if you actually had a gun you would have pulled it out long ago and shot me without any remorse."

She was caught, like an animal in a hunter's trap, no escape. She pulled her hand out from her bag, the trembling abating somewhat, the loss of control was somewhat freeing, all she could do now was wait for his next move. The boy simply stood there, head titled to the side and eyes squinted slightly, smiling and staring at her. His shoulders were slightly hunched and he, almost unconsciously, put his hands in his pockets.

"You're not scared anymore." The almost maniacal tone of his voice was practically gone, now sounding more familiar and human. Rachel still stood on edge, not wanting to be lured into a false sense of security.

She shook her head, "No, if you are going to hurt me there isn't too much I can do, is there?"

The boy let out a bark of laughter, "No, there isn't." He pulled his hands out of his pockets and clapped them together in, what seemed to be, delight. "You are smart one, aren't you?" He brought one hand up to his face thoughtfully and amended his statement, "Although not too smart if you decided it was okay for a…uhhh…pretty young _thing_ like you to wander around so late at night."

"I wasn't wandering around," Rachel said, suddenly offended by his blatant teasing, "I am lost."

He waggled his finger at her and turned his head to the side, giving her a mockingly reproachful look, "Which isn't too smart."

She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to think of a reply. Eventually she gave up and shut her mouth, wanting to glare at him angrily but still too frightened to do so. "Can you tell me how to get uptown?"

The boy laughed, a little less frightening than the first time but still chilling, and moved a little closer to Rachel. "Hmmm…uptown is pretty far away." He grinned rakishly at her and she felt heat rise to her face. Having gone to an all girls' school for almost her entire life, she was unused to meeting boys in any social situations. Although she would be hard-pressed into calling their alleyway encounter a social situation, she was still acutely aware that the boy harassing her was, in fact, a very handsome young man. "Why should I help you? What's in it…for me?" He gave her a sweeping look that caused her blush even more furiously.

"You don't, I was just asking." She prayed that he would make a decision one way or another, the anticipation of his next move was fraying her fragile nerves. She wanted to curl up in her bed and never, ever argue with her parents again.

He turned his head to the left, then to the right, then to the left again; as though he was five and about to cross the street. "Hmmm. Uptown…are you by any chance one of the…uhhh…_privileged_ of Gotham? One of the…trust fund brigade?" His overall tone was light but there was a slight hint of malice in the way he said privileged that made the earlier fear that Rachel had felt renew itself tenfold.

"No, I work uptown." She lied through her teeth, hoping that he believed her. If he thought she was rich she would be in more danger than before, kidnapping looks very promising when poverty looms constantly on the horizon.

The boy made a tsk-tsk sound, wagging his index finger at her. "You wouldn't be lying now, would you? No no no no. You are one of the well-to-do Gotham society types." He gestured his hands and pointed at himself, "I can tell. Why would you want to lie to me? All I want to do is…_help_ you." His tone told a different story.

"Are you going to tell me how to get there or not?" Hands on her hips, she tried to give the air of one who was unafraid.

"Oh…I'm going to tell you." His tongue darted out of his cavernous mouth again and Rachel's eyes flicked to the pink little organ. He rolled his eyes upward as if in concentration, tongue still darting quickly across his lips. "You go…six blocks down that way," he point right, "Then turn left…go five more blocks…you'll find more familiar and more harmless surroundings soon enough." He caught her gaze and gave her a smile full of teeth.

"Thanks," Rachel said before practically sprinting in the direction he had given. She was only a few feet away when he called out to her.

"Although…if I just sent you off by your lonesome…tommorow Mommy and Daddy might have to," he bit his lip as if distressed by what he was saying, "go down to the morgue to identify the body of their poor…_naïve_ baby girl."

Rachel stopped in her tracks and turned around swiftly. "What are you talking about?"

The boy just shrugged his shoulders carelessly, like he didn't just threaten her life. "Nothing…it's just that this…uhhh…neighborhood isn't safe for a beauuutiful girl like yourself." He threw up his hands in a cavalier way, "I was just trying to be," he licked his lips, "…chivalrous."

"Oh," Rachel said, thrown off by the sincerity in his voice, "Well," she continued cautiously, "maybe you could just take me to, uhh, 'familiar surroundings'."

"I could, couldn't I?" He made no move to continue and she waited patiently for a moment but the stony faced teen was unchanging. Eventually she turned and continued on her way. Seconds later, she heard the sound of footfalls behind her and out of the corner of her eye she saw that the boy was following her.

His hands were jammed into his pockets as he pulled up beside her, brushing against her lightly. The feeling of skin on their bare arms surprised both and they pulled away simultaneously. He turned his head to her and looked at her questioningly, his earlier menacing attitude completely gone, making Rachel wonder if she had imagined it. "Soooo," he said in a casual tone, "really, what is a doll like you doing here? And don't give me that shit about working uptown. It is written all over your designer jeans. You, baby, are money."

The way he talked when he spoke casually was so different than the way the people spoke in her world, he was definitely educated and he spoke as such but the sprinkling of 30's slang added an edge to his voice that drew her in. "I, um, I am running away from home." She gave the statement a thought and added, "Or at least I was."

He didn't even glance at her. "What could your Mom and Pops have done that is worse than what scum like myself could have done to you?"

Vaguely she noted that he was threatening her again, "They won't let me change schools. I want to have more diversity in the people I meet, people besides the generic cookie cutter made students at Gotham Prep." She was lost in her rant now, forgetting who she was talking too. "And I actually want to meet some boys besides the janitor and my driver. I am sixteen-years-old, and I am sick of my parents trying to get me together with Bruce. Really, he is like my brother," she paused, the vision of Bruce Wayne and his morose countenance filling her head, "and sooooo boring."

He scrunched up his shoulders offhandedly, "I wouldn't worry, a dish like yourself will have plenty experience with boys soon enough." He waggled his eyebrows at her and she blushed furiously. For a moment, she forgot the horrid fear she had felt earlier and felt herself become drawn towards him. She was about to flirt back when she saw a flash of malice cross his countenance. She remembered suddenly the darkness that surely resided in his heart and mumbled something, turning her head away, not wanting to be taking in by the atrocious boy.

They continued on in quiet for fifteen minutes before the oppressive silence began to wear at her sanity. She had to break the silence, even if it meant conversing with the devil himself, "So, ummm, what's your name."

He didn't stop moving but he did cast a sidelong glance at her, cocking one eyebrow upwards. For several long minutes he was silent, Rachel thinking he didn't want to answer her. Suddenly, "Jack."

She looked over at him startled but his face betrayed no signs that he had even spoken to her. "Jack," she tried the name, it seemed too…_normal_…of a name for him. "I like it," she sheepishly looked over at him, "it suits you."

"I _hate_ it." He growled, sending little spasms of fear through her stomach. "It is so common, so tedious." He stopped their movements and, using his height to the greatest advantage, loomed over her. "And I am _not_…common. Do you understand?" He brought his hand to her cheek and stroked it softly, like a little child would stroke a new pet, uncertainly yet filled with curiosity.

Rachel swallowed loudly, "Yes," she whispered, eyes widened and heart pounding.

His head twitched slightly to the side and he flashed her another wide grin. "Good." With a little tap on her cheek, he turned and continued walking, leaving a frozen Rachel to run to catch up.

The desire to start up another conversation no longer plagued Rachel.

They had walked for nearly forty minutes when Rachel began to see familiar street signs and more police vehicles, amazingly enough this crazy boy had gotten her home. He seemed to have sensed her familiarity with the surroundings because he had stopped and stared down at her, like an expectant bellboy waiting for a tip.

They were in a darkened alley, he had led her through mostly alleys, seeming to enjoy the creepiness it afforded him, but she was feeling a lot less frightened of him now that she was in a relatively safe environment. "Wow," she said with gratefulness in her tone, "you got me home. I don't know how to thank you."

A look of consternation was now plastered over his attractive face like he was trying to make a difficult decision, his brown eyes, which looked black in the shadows, were glued to her and his tongue was working over time on his chapped lips. He once again, seemed to loom over her, although this time she wasn't sure if it was consciously or unconsciously.

"I am going to kill you." The bottom fell out of her stomach, he said it so calmly, like it was something he had been planning from the moment he met her, frighteningly enough it probably was. Her eyes darted around and she thanked God when she saw an idle patrol car parked less than a twenty feet away from where she was hidden with the insane boy.

"What?"

"You heard me." His dark eyes were serious and taunting at the same time, creating a horrible vision.

She was frightened but the close presence of police gave her a little confidence and allowed her to continue questioning him as she built up the adrenaline she knew she would need to escape the strange teen. "Why didn't you do it early, before you led me here?" She whispered, morbid curiosity filling her.

His serious countenance disappeared instantly, his expressions changing faster than a blink of the eye. He was suddenly light and casual, as though discussing murder was a common occurrence. "I don't like to…_rush_ things."

Rachel prepared herself to sprint across the street to the car. "But why would you take me here? You missed your chance."

A new and incredibly sinister smile crossed his face. "Oh…I wouldn't say so. As long as nobody else kills you first. No no no no no…I have plenty of time."

Adrenaline rushing and eyes widening, she sprinted away from him as he began to laugh like a maniac, desperately throwing herself at the policemen who were curiously getting out of the squad car. The last thing she heard, before she was enveloped in the sweet arms of the law, was maniacal laughter and, "Don't go getting yourself killed, beautiful. We still have unfinished business and I always finish my business, that I promise you."

A decade later, Rachel would discover that he was a man of his word.

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AN: Yeah, so I know that the casual Joker was out of character but again, he still a teeny tiny bit of innocence. But I do hope that the "crazy" teen Joker was more in line with the TDK Joker. So, love it? Tell me. Hate it? Tell me but be gentle. Just review. Up next: Collegian Bruce Wayne plays an interesting game with a _very_ interesting classmate.

AN 2: Oh, yeah, I was also wondering if there were any chess players out there. I plan to use copious amounts of chess terms in my next chapter and I really know nothing about the game besides "castling". So if you know any common chess terminology I would love if you could inform me. I will dedicate the next chapter to you. So thanks.


	3. Bruce Wayne

Title: Destined  
Author: chocolatemooses  
Disclaimer: I am too tired and buzzed on Vicodin to think of something witty to say. So I don't own anything.

AN: I am so so so sorry about the long update. I just had minor surgery and I haven't really had the inclination to update. I really had issues with this chapter, not too sure how it turns out. But I would really like to dedicate this chapter to Lone Warrior2, who is just amazing and helped me so much concerning the chess portion of this story. So thanks, Lone, you rock. Everyone else please just read and review. I promise if I get a lot of reviews I will update quickly.

AN Update: Sorry, I made a couple of changes to this chapter, there were a bunch of grammar mistakes and I added a few things. Sorry.

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Sometimes…people see things in motion, like the way the tree bends when a strong gust blows past it or the way small children run with their arms spread out wide so as not to fall when they run just a little too fast. Sometimes people see things in sounds, the sound of the old women gossiping on the park bench or the sound of the vendor from across the street shouting orders back into the kitchen in some foreign language. But on this particular day he sees everything in colors; bright, vivid hues that dazzle and blind him. The deep reds and oranges and yellows of the dying fall leaves that make Jersey autumns so famous. The brilliant aqua of the water as it squirts out of the drinking fountains and catches on the cement below. The shining emerald of the freshly cut grass that dances as it gets crushed under the blissful white tennis shoes of small children. He sees and marvels at every single color imaginable on that lovely autumn day.

And, because, on that particular day, he sees only in colors he notices only the details, the small nuances of colors and shades, and is unable to piece together the big picture. He only sees the details. They say that God is in the details. They say the something similar about the devil.

"Check. Wait, actually I believe that is checkmate."

Bruce Wayne smiled brilliantly and crossed his arms across his chest, daring his opponent to challenge him. The old man, however, seemed unperturbed by obvious defeat. He brought a withered hand to his chin and carefully considered the battlefield that lay before him. His rheumy eyes scoured the war zone, carefully looking for an ace in the hole, the Calvary, anything to help him save his beloved king. Eventually though, the man saw the cards laid out before him. He was beaten.

With all the good nature that old age afforded him, the man knocked down his king and conceded defeat. "Don't look so smug Mister Wayne," he said as he gathered up the pieces, "it really isn't becoming."

Bruce laughed and began to replace the shining white pieces one by one. "I can't help it Professor, I really am just that good."

"I'm sure," the professor mumbled under his breath. They traded a few more playful barbs as the put their pieces back into their designated spots. When all signs of their battle were swept away, the old man stood, grabbing a weathered auburn cane for support.

The younger man looked up, "You're not leaving are you?"

"Yes," he said, reaching for his cap that hung on the back of the chair. He pulled the well-worn hat over his nearly bald head and began fastening the buttons on his equally threadbare coat. "As much as I enjoy getting trounced by up-start young collegians, I have actual work that I need to attend to." Finished with his coat, he gave Bruce a searching look. "And I believe that you also have some school work that needs attention."

He lowered his gaze and waved off the old man. "Yes, yes. I know. But can't a guy enjoy a beautiful day though?" He threw his arms out wide and leaned back slightly in the fold-up chair. "I mean, today is really a wonderful day to be outside. Think about it, before you know it this weather is going to be gone 

and we'll all be stuck inside wishing we had savored these types of days while we had them." Laughing, he continued, "Carpe diem, Professor, seize the day."

The old man threw his hands up in the air, scoffing. "So melodramatic. You know, you can spend all the time in the world outside if you get kicked out of Princeton. Then see where your beautiful day went."

Bruce sobered immediately, sitting up straight in his seat, he caught his professor's gaze in a serious glance. "Professor," his voice quiet and meditative, "you know that I take my studies seriously, don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's just that I don't want to go back to campus right now. Everyone there will just want to talk about the arrest. I want to get away for a little while. I don't want to deal with it, you understand right?"

The old man looked horribly guilty, he had forgotten all about the boy's situation and had fallen easily into the old habit of berating him about his studies, not that he really needed it, but it was a way to keep himself a part of his favorite student's life. "Yes, I understand. I'm sorry, I forgot all about...well…you know me, just a crotchety old fool trying to ruin all the young people's fun. Don't pay me any mind."

"Have I ever?" Bruce smiled, bringing the conversation back to safe ground.

"Not that I know of. Listen, Bruce." The professor put a hand on the young man shoulder. "You stay out here as long as you like." He paused and then tentatively added, "And if you ever need to talk, really talk, you can always come to me." Bruce didn't meet his friend's eyes but still nodded in acknowledgement, although they both knew he would probably never take his professor up on his offer. "Good," he patted the boy a few times more before detaching himself. Feeling awkward, he made his swift but tactful departure. "See you around my boy."

"Bye, professor." Bruce turned and watched his mentor hobble across the street, keeping an eye on him until he disappeared among the masses of park goers. When he could no longer spot the old man's grey coat, he turned back and leaned in his chair, eyes closed and arms stretched backwards.

It was peaceful here and he enjoyed the anonymity that the park gave him. Here he wasn't a billionaire trust-fund kid with dead parents and more angst than a normal twenty four-year-old could handle. Here, he was just an average guy, playing a game of chess. He could pretend, if only for a little while, that he wasn't going to have to face the man who had shot his parents in cold blood so many years ago. He could pretend that the urge to strangle with his bare hands the son of a bitch who took away his innocence and destroyed his childhood didn't exist. He could pretend that he was actually a happy guy, even if for only a little while.

He sat back and rammed his fingers into his temples; the simple thought of that bastard was calling a disturbing feeling to the pit of his gut. It was a small urge that, in the past few weeks, had slowly grown and taken frightening form. It coiled tightly in his gut and prodded at his subconscious. When it first came into existence it was generally ignorable during the daylight hours, only tormenting him when he hid in the shadows. But, a few days ago, it grew louder and began to make its way into his daily conscious. Now, it seemed to bite at him and demand his attention constantly; and he was incapable to stop it. In all, he was powerless against it, this new feeling, and that terrified him.

"Looking for a challenge?"

Bruce's eyes snapped open and for a moment he was blinded by the sudden rush of light. Blinking, he brought a hand up to his forehead and tried to make out the form of the man accosting him. Eventually, his eyes became used to the bright sun and he was able to make out a face to match the voice.

"I'm sorry, what?" Bruce squinted, hoping to make out some kind of feature on the man's face.

"A challenge," his voice was slightly raspy, like he had just been shouting, it was slightly disturbing. The shadowed figure gestured to the board. "Do you wanna play a…game." He paused and the shadow cocked his head to the side, making Bruce feel like a tomato being squeezed and prodded before being consumed by a picky shopper. "A chess game."

Bruce shook his head, trying to shake off the strange feeling. He closed his eyes and quickly swatted his hand over his face, clearing the cobwebs. "Ummm, sure. Yeah." He gestured the board with his hand and the man took a seat.

Now out of the sun, Bruce was able to finally see his face. He was a young man, probably around his own age maybe a little younger. Blonde hair and features that would normally be called "good-looking" but the dark grey circles under his eyes, the greasiness of his sandy hair, and the slight yellow tinge to his skin and teeth made him seem more like a wax sculpture gone wrong rather than an actual person. He looked like an over-worked college student, trying to find a moment of reprieve from a demanding schedule.

Bruce extended a hand to the man, his arm reaching carefully over the chess pieces. "Bruce." The man grabbed the extended hand and pumped it vigorously.

"Jack." He smiled, his yellowed teeth bared in almost a feral like way. This guy was definitely a bit creepy. "Your move"

"Nice to meet you." He absent-mindedly moved his pawn forward, really not daring to take his gaze away from his opponent's face. He slammed down the time button.

Jack's eyes narrowed and he tore his eyes away from Bruce. Hand on his chin, he examined the board with care. He played a similar move and the sound of the timer clicked.

"So," he said, looking up from the board, "You go to the University?"

Bruce, finally, turned his gaze to the board and moved another pawn forward. He always started out slow, not one for fancy moves unless they specifically helped towards the greater good. As a player he preferred to watch, carefully assessing his enemy and striking when they least expected it. The _click_ of the timer. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

He responded, his gaze glued to the game. "Anonymity is not your forte, Mr. Wayne. No one at Princeton doesn't know that the _infamous_ Bruce Wayne is in attendance of our humble campus." He moved his bishop, _click_. "You're also in my psych class." The corners of his mouth quirked upward.

"Really? I don't remember seeing you." He moved his favorite piece, the knight, forward. _Click._

"Yeah…I'm good at not garnering too much…mmm…attention when I want." His bishop moved to the side, taking out his pawn and surprising Bruce. "Betcha you wished you could learn to do that too…huh?" _click._

"That does sound nice." He moved his rook to the side. _Click._

They played like this for several moves, both players incredibly skilled in the game. Jack seemed bent on destroying his white knight and within seven deftly played moves both were off the board. However, Bruce wasn't one to take defeat lightly, he was soon engrossed in the game. And pretty soon, he had four pieces of his own. They made courteous small talk; the weather, similar teachers, and basic academic goals. Jack seemed completely indifferent about his past, present, and future, giving only vague outlines for all of them but no solid facts or plans. Saying, "I'm not really the…umm…planning type of guy", he clearly wasn't fond of the subject and Bruce learned quickly that questions of the like were to be steered clear of.

"So," he snagged a pawn with his bishop. _Click_. "I have heard around the…ahhh…water cooler that they arrested the man that..._mmm_urdered your parents."

Puzzling over the most recent of his troop's deaths, he hardly paid attention to the question or the way that his competitor's voice had, bit by bit, taken on a more sinister tone and the way he slowed his speech and the way he paused in between words to lick his red, chapped lips. "Uhh, yeah. I am actually going back to Gotham on Friday." He hesitantly moved his pawn, not daring to move a more vital piece. Jack's pieces seemed to pop up out of nowhere, he had walked into at least three different traps today. "For the trial, you know." _Click._

"The guy who did it….I heard he was getting a…" he licked his lips, "deal." _Click._

"Yes," his tone became stilted, the topic really not what he wished to discuss. "He was cell mates with a mob leader and is giving his testimony in exchange for a reduced sentence." His tone was light but he wasn't able to make the distaste and fury in his eyes go away, he hoped that Jack wouldn't catch it but even after playing only one game of chess with the guy he sort of knew that was unlikely. "It's just how these things go." _Click._

"Hmmm…kind of funny, isn't it." He let out a little giggle, almost like a hiccup. "I mean, I remember that when your uhhh Mommy and Daddy were first _killed_ the whole city was in an uproar. How fickle is the justice system." _Click._

For a second he saw red, just red, it filled his vision and made it impossible to for him to think clearly or make a move on the chess board. He remembered, remembered how it all was when they were first murdered. The mayor, the police chief, the media; they all guaranteed him an arrest, they all guaranteed him justice. But they had all forgotten about his parents, his parents who funded them and supported the justice that they so rightly deserved, were forgotten. "Pretty fucking fickle." _Click._

"I'm mean…your parents, they were ummm _herrroes_ of Gotham, right?" He does that weird lip licking thing. "They dedicate their entire life to making the work of these so called…_civil servants_…easier and how are they repaid? A knife in the back…it's…mmmm…Shakespearian." _Click._

Without realizing it, Bruce saw that his bishop had been taken. Only a small part of him cared. "I hate them." He said it quietly and Jack nods sympathetically. "The hide behind the law, they don't uphold it. Really, how can anyone in Gotham be trusted. The corruption is everywhere, even with my parent's murderer's testimony Falconi's million dollar lawyer is still going to get him off. Scum like that doesn't deserve to live." He vaguely moves a piece.

"What about you?" Bruce's head shot up at the harsh tone that his opponent's voice had taken on. "You depend on all these…mmm…_suits_ and expect them to take care of everything. If there is one thing I know…it's that you can't depend on anyone these days." _Click._

Nearly all of the pieces were gone now, leaving him only his king and a small frightened pawn, way out of its depth. Jack, on the other hand, had his king and a bold queen, who was closing in on his little white pawn. For a second, Bruce marveled at the bone cream color of the little guy. How can one small pawn ever make a difference with such insurmountable odds? "What _can_ I do? Hmmm, I have searched all venues but there is no way around it." He rammed his fingers into his eyes, the dark feeling coiling and searing in his gut once again. It made his head pound with the mystery of its origin and meaning. "Justice is blind, it can't see the good my parents have done and can't give them what they deserve." _Click_.

"And what do they deserve…hmmm?" _Click._

"JUSTICE, dammit! They deserve redemption and I deserve some closure. I deserve," he paused to catch his breath, "I deserve to watch the man who ruined my life die." _Click_.

Jack was quiet, breaking the rhythm that they had so delicately kept up. His eyes were scrunched up and clouded, his blonde hair seeming too bright in the sun and his face too dark in the shadows. His vivid pink tongue darted out of his mouth, in what Bruce now saw as an unconscious tick. His whole body seemed to ripple and pulse, like he was incapable of staying still. He wasn't really fidgeting; he just gave off the impression of constant movement. They were both quiet for a long time, having reached an impasse.

Then, suddenly, he stood, arms wiggling in his green jacket and reaching into his pocket. "If I know one thing," he growled out, "it's this." He fished around for a moment and then pulled something hard and shining out. "If you want something done right...you gotta do it yourself." With a thump, he dropped a small revolver on the almost deserted chess table. It winked and beckoned to him in the sun, the coiling in his gut calling to it. With shaking hands, he grabbed the gun and held it gingerly in his lap.

Bruce looked up but Jack was already walking away. He called back behind his shoulder, "It's a draw." He looked down at the board and saw that his king was backed into a corner, the queen blocking all his moves and Jack's king was tucked away safely on the other side of the table. A stalemate.

He wanted to call to Jack but seemed unable to find his voice. So he simply watched as he turned around suddenly. The last thing that Bruce was able to hear as he walked away backwards, before the sounds of children playing and woman talking loudly on their cell phones drown him out, was, "I had great…fun. We'll, have to play another game…one day."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

AN: Okay, so what did you all think? I really wanted to link this to Bruce's darkest point (when he wanted to kill a man) and I thought it would be interesting if the Joker had a small hand in that. Oh, and in chess, a stalemate is when one opponent puts another in check, a player isn't allowed to move their king into a checkmate, so the game is called a draw or a stalemate, just so you all know. Soooo, review? Please. Up next...the recently appointed ADA Harvey Dent prosecutes a frightening new criminal.


	4. Harvey Dent

Title: Destined  
Chapter: Harvey Dent  
Author: chocolatemooses  
Disclaimer: If I owned Batman do you really think I'd be here?

AN: Okay, so I am so so so so soooo sorry that it took so long to update but really I have been beyond busy and writing this chapter has been incredibly difficult. I actually am not super happy with it, I started well but...never mind you, dear reader, be the judge. Also, I must put a little disclaimer; the first few sentences are almost directly from the novel Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I have been reading that book and the beginning always reminded me of Harvey losing his sanity, so I had to put a little homage in my chapter. Anyway, please read and review, it will make me so happy. Enjoy.

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On an exceptionally hot day, early in July a young man came out of the loft in which he lodged on 14th Street and walked slowly, as though in hesitation towards the Narrows of Gotham City. He surreptitiously wiped his already, sweat-shined brow brushing away an errant lock of blonde hair. He looked up at the glaring sun, Gotham had been going through a heat wave that showed no signs of ending soon, and his body wilted slightly in the heat. The sun beat down on the back of the newly appointed Executive Assistant District Attorney as he tried, seemingly in vain, to hail a speeding cab. The young lawyer became visibly annoyed quickly, his foot jiggling and his cries to the street becoming more fervent. Eventually a cab slowed and pulled off to the side of the road, giving the young Harvey Dent a reprieve from the scorching sun.

The cab smelled as all Gotham cabs smelled, the stench of sweat, blood, and other questionable fluids permeated his skin and made him feel claustrophobic. If there was one thing that Harvey hated more than the crime and corruption that was breed so easily in his beloved city, it would have been Gotham cabs. Normally he would have walked to work, living only twenty minutes away from the courthouse, but regrettably, today wasn't a normal day for Mr. Dent.

"Where to?" The cab driver spoke in the rough gangster slang that was so common among the working class of Gotham city. His eyes were small and watery, reminiscent of a rat, and he face was bloated from obvious alcohol abuse. His overweight body heaved and sighed under the combined strain of conversation and oppressive heat.

Despite his cabbie's discouraging shortcomings, Harvey attempted a winning smile; a smile that was in complete contradiction to the directions he had to give. "Arkham Asylum."

The cab driver did a double take in his mirror, eyeing the well-dressed man with suspicion. He gave Harvey a quick once over, trying to gauge his passenger's level of sanity, before responding. "Ya know that goin' to da Narrows costs extra, right?"

"Yeah, I know." Harvey replied flippantly, part of him wanting to flash a wad of cash at the hesitant man knowing that it would have quickly ended the dull conversation. Giving Harvey one last cautious look, the driver gunned the engine and took off into the traffic. The city raced by as he stared out at the sweeping buildings that seemed to morph into a single body as they speed past.

His hand silently slipped into his pocket, feeling around until cool metal grazed his fingertips. He gripped his father's lucky coin in his hand and began to fiddle with it in his pocket. Harvey was anxious; his stomach clenched, his hands twitched in his pockets, and he felt the beginnings of a tension headache. His anxiety, however, stemmed not from the fact that it was his first day on a new job…well not completely.

Perhaps, subconsciously, it was the date, Friday the 13th, that had him on edge or maybe it was the telephone call he had received last night at exactly midnight, with a full moon shining brightly in the sky, telling him a heinous crime had been committed and he was needed at Arkham or maybe it was his current destination, a place so frightening that it was known to drive even those who worked there insane, that had him so rattled. Whatever it was, it had compelled him to, just as he was leaving his apartment, quickly shuffle through his old stuff and grab his father's lucky coin from the recesses of his closet.

Now that he held it in his hand, the small object seemed so strange and out of place. The truth was he hated the coin, hated it with a surprising amount of passion. The coin, for him, had always represented everything that was wrong with his father and always brought back every unpleasant memory of his childhood. Memories, that shot through his head like a ricocheted bullet, pinging from one corner of his brain to another like lightning, making it hard to focus and simultaneously impossible to turn away from.

Harvey's father would hardly have been called a great parent. Little Harvey Dent had always lived in some state of chaos, stemming from his father's mood swings. It was nothing chemical, it wasn't some kind of disease, it was nothing Harvey or anyone could fix. No, it was the coin that caused his father to be a modern-day Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Every decision made by the senior Dent, every decision concerning his son at least, was based on a flip of a single inconsequential coin.

"_But Dad! I have a BIG test tomorrow. I need to stay up to study."_

"_I don't care. Nine o'clock means nine o'clock. Time for bed."_

"_Dad this isn't fair!"_

"_Fair? Tell you what son…Tails you stay up for as long as you like. Heads you go to sleep now. What do you say? Sound fair to you?"_

_It didn't sound fair to little Harvey; it seemed even less fair when he got his test returned to him a week later and a glaring red F laughed back at him._

Harvey finally pulled the coin out of his pocket, studying it carefully. It wasn't just small things like bed times, curfew, and whether or not he ate his broccoli. As he got older the decisions became more and more consequential.

"_Dad, everyone is going to this party, I have to go."_

"_Dad, I need new shoes. Mine have holes."_

"_Dad, I really want to go to this college and I only need your signature to get the student loans."_

Request after request, the coin came up in his father's favor. By the time he left home for good, Harvey Dent hated the chaos that came with the flip of a coin. As he got older, he was able to convince himself that his father's parenting techniques came, not out of malice, but out of his inability to take care of a child on his own and the mental illness that made every choice agony that wrought havoc on his psyche and body. He came to accept that his father was just a man who had tried to do right by his son. Even after he came to understand all of that, he still hated that coin and pitied his father for not being stronger.

A few years ago, his dad had a stroke. He was old and his demons were finally getting to him; Harvey had gone to the hospital, not to encourage his father's recovery but to bid him farewell. He had stayed by his dad's bedside for hours, reminiscing on days past and discussing Harvey's future. Both carefully avoiding the underlying tension that had always defined their relationship.

Eventually though, the old man's strength gave out and, as he struggled for his last few breaths, he managed to give Harvey a small token of his love. A knife in the heart. Harvey's father had gently pressed his lucky coin into his hand and smiled at him knowingly, tapping his hand in reassurance. A single moment that seemed like eternity passed between father and son in which it seemed, to Harvey, that the old man was laughing at him, like he had a hilarious little joke he was just about to share. The moment passed and the laughter and light went out of the man's eyes.

It was hours later before Harvey had finally been able to take a closer look at the object pressed into his hand. When he saw what it was he dropped it like a hot fire, his hands shaking as he turned away from the offending object. It was his father's old coin, just as he remembered from his childhood and fractured nightmares. At first, it had seemed like any vintage coin but when he had flipped it over the sight he found there churned his gut. Heads. On both sides. A trick coin. A novelty found in any old magic shop. An insignificant _toy_, had ruled his life for nearly eighteen years.

That night he had stuffed the coin, and all other items from his childhood, far away. In a small nook in his apartment that was occupied by only dust and bugs. Trying to forget the cruel joke his father had played on him. Yet, even though he was able to box up the trinkets of a broken childhood, he was never truly able to forget the laughing eyes that looked up from him from a hospital bed.

So really, bringing such an item with him on his venture to Arkham boggled Harvey's mind. He didn't want to think of the subconscious implications. He didn't want to think that, like his father, he had over time developed some sort of dependency on the silly little thing.

"Hey!" Harvey snapped out of his musings and looked up into the driver's mirror. "Buddy," the cabbie said, clearly annoyed, "you gonna get out? It really ain't safe to park around here."

Harvey chanced a glance out his window and saw that they were indeed in a less…favorable part of Gotham. Even though it was early in the morning and the sun shone brightly, those of questionable morality still roamed the streets. Several small groups of boys loitered casually down the street and Harvey was pretty sure that there was a drug dealer at the end of the block making some kind of transaction. He ignored all this, for now at least, there was nothing he could really do. Instead he turned to the cabbie and handed him his fee. The cabbie rudely snatched it from his hands and Harvey grinned condescendingly. "Quite the charmer, aren't you?" Harvey said sarcastically as he unfolded himself from the car.

"Fuck you," the cab driver scowled as Harvey closed the door, not even waiting until he stepped back before he sped off. Harvey was torn between laughing at his funny luck and giving the racing taxi cab the finger. He did neither and instead headed for the building that loomed before him.

Arkham Asylum stood out like a sore thumb among the crumbling tenements that were pre-dominant in the Narrows. Despite being easily the most modern and "clean" (clean being a relative term in this case) building found in a fifteen mile radius, Arkham seemed more frightening and ominous than the darkest alley in Gotham. Its grey walls and security towers flaunted the danger that was held within it confines and the occasional scream that drifted to the streets every now and again, brought shivers of fear to even the most hardened Gotham citizens.

All of this only slightly deterred Mr. Dent. He was no longer the anxious new E.A.D.A., he was now the determined young man who had worked double shifts all through college to pay for tuition. He was he young man who had graduated top of his class at Yale, surpassing the students who had the luxury of devoting every hour to their studies. He was the young man who had taken Gotham by storm, dedicating his life to fighting the corruption that had seeped so easily into every corner of city life. He was the young man who was going to go into Arkham Asylum, fearless, and prosecute a mentally questionable man who had slit the throats of three people while holding up Gotham National Bank late yesterday evening.

The inside of Arkham Asylum was just as terrifying as the exterior. The bleach white walls were of blinding brilliance and enough to drive anyone insane. He was led by a meaty looking guard down the halls of the insane asylum. Harvey attempted to steel himself against the mad shrieks and mutterings that could be heard just on the other side of the "patients'" "rooms".

After passing several security doors and countless metal detectors, they stopped at the end of a darkened hallway. For a moment, Harvey stopped to wonder why such a place would ever want to purposefully darken a hallway that housed the mentally insane but after only a second's consideration of the thought he was distracted by the opening of the cell door.

For a moment, Harvey was blinded. The room was fully lit with the gleaming intensity of fluorescent lights and, in such stark contrast to the dark hallway, he was taken aback and forced to shield his eyes. The room, walls the same pearly white, was surprisingly large and made to seem larger by the sparseness of the furniture; only housing a steel table in the center of the room and two iron barred chairs.

Sitting in one of the two chairs was a…a…kid. Harvey stood in the doorway of the cell, glancing backwards at the guard, making sure he had the right room. He couldn't quite believe that a man this young could commit the crimes he was accused of, the guy couldn't be more than twenty. As it became apparent that he was indeed in the right interrogation room and that this young man had indeed killed three people, a powerful feeling of sorrow settled in his heart. Harvey half hoped that the kid was insane so that later, when he wide awake in bed, he could tell himself that it was just faulty wiring and not the horrors of life that drove someone so young to such a deed.

He took a moment to harden his heart against his emotions and pulled himself into the cavalier attitude that he so often projected. Straightening his suit, he entered into the room of bright light.

Once fully engulfed in the light of the room, he was able to get a better look at the criminal. Harvey could tell that he was once handsome, in a skinny bookish type of way. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, his hands folded neatly in front of him, as if he was in a job interview instead of an interrogation. His limp, greasy hair fell in individual chunks on his face and his naturally olive skin had the yellowish coloring of one who avoided sunlight at all costs and sagged in odd spots around his neck. On a whole, he looked like something foreign had tried to crawl into his skin and didn't quite yet fit. However, most disturbing were his eyes. Their coloring was entirely inconsequential because, if one was to look into them, all you would remember upon recollection was the darkness you had found there, twin black holes boring into your soul and stripping you bare. He stared up at the lawyer will his black vacuum eyes and Harvey could only hold the gaze for a small moment before he had to turn away.

"So," Harvey started clearing his throat, "I understand that you have turned down legal counsel."

The man said nothing.

"You also have failed to give your name. You carried no form of identification with you and your prints failed to turn up anything." Harvey paused, still standing and towering over the younger man. "Care to give me a name?"

Still nothing.

Harvey felt a twinge of frustration in his chest but he kept his tone light. "You sure? Because it would really help _you_ if I had a name; judges' heart bleed less when they are reading a death penalty petition if they don't have a name."

That got a smirk and a couple of raised eye brows but no word did the man utter.

Harvey decided to try a different tactic. "Fine, don't tell me your name. Tell me about you. Let me hear your life story, especially since I'll probably be the last guy you talk to who _won't_ be trying to rape you in the showers later."

That got a reaction; although Harvey was pretty sure he preferred the silence. The man began to laugh, a horrible cackling noise that sent shivers down his spine. He wheezed and giggled and chuckled for so long that Harvey had begun composing the commitment papers in his head.

Eventually, the laughter died down and the boy finally broke his silence. "You…you are a funny guy. Really…we should be _friends."_

"Yes," Harvey said hesitantly, "friends..." He trailed off, wondering what friendship with this young man entailed. "But if we are to be friends, it would be helpful if I knew your name."

The boy's head was cocked to the side and he stared at the older man curiously. His eyes were squinted slightly, like he was trying to see something that was a distance away. Harvey, for only a moment, was certain that the man was reading his thoughts, analyzing his soul, evaluating the content of his character; trying to decide…well, Harvey wasn't sure what he was trying to decide, but he could tell that he was trying to make up his mind about _something_.

"Jack. Jack Napier." Harvey was startled by Jack's voice but was able to hold back on giving any outward appearance of discomfort. He pulled a notepad out of his briefcase and began to write down the man's name. "Don't bother…running it through your systems." The man stared violently at the yellow paper, like it was offending him. "I have a knack for going unnoticed."

Thrown off balance, Harvey returned his notepad to the briefcase. "Alright, Jack. If you say so." He pulled out the chair opposite the boy and allowed himself to sit. In law school, it is recommended that every student take a basic psychology class, a class required for precisely these types of situations. They teach you basic intimidation techniques; using height to overwhelm the suspect, maintaining constant eye contact, and other manipulation techniques useful in the daily lives of attorneys. Harvey leaned over on the table, hands folded on the desk. He hunched up his shoulders and tried to make his chest seem broader; he had at least 30 pounds on Jack and wanted to use it to his advantage.

Jack seemed unfazed or uninterested, Harvey half expected him to theatrically yawn. Harvey splayed out his hands, trying to decide how to approach the state of affairs that lay before him. Eventually though, he lifted his head and smiled good-naturedly at Jack, like they were old high school friends or drinking buddies. "So," he began in a low conspiratorial tone, "tell me Jack. Are you crazy?" He cocked his head to his side and gave the criminal a quizzical look.

Jack's response was a bark of laughter that, thankfully, didn't dissolve into the frightening cackle that had been displayed earlier. "I don't know..." Jack grinned evilly, "What do you think?"

He clenched his hands but forced his face to stay relaxed. "It doesn't matter what I think. What do you think?"

He shrugged his shoulders, his mouth forming into a closed lip grin of impishness. "What _should _I think?"

Harvey took a deep mental breath. Logically he knew that Jack was doing this purposely to get on his nerves but it still didn't stop him from being an annoying little prick. Still, with restraint he didn't know he had, he was able to keep his face relatively neutral. "Just tell me what happened that day, okay?"

Jack cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtfully at the lawyer. A slight smirk ghosted across his lips before he continued, "I killed three people. Not because I needed money." He made a derisive noise. "I haven't needed money since I was nine years old." A pensive look crossed his face, one that was far more sinister and dangerous than anything Harvey had before witnessed. It was a look of intelligence, of control. Dare he say it, a look of sanity. However, it soon passed and his wild eyed gazed leveled with his. "I killed them because I could…mmm…I would do it again in a heartbeat…does that make me..." He paused to lick his waxy lips, "…_crazy_?"

Harvey didn't answer, his equilibrium thrown off balance. "I," he cleared his throat, "I don't know." Unconsciously he reached into his pocket and pulled out his father's lucky coin. He palmed it and felt, frighteningly, reassured by its presence. For a moment, he was lost in his thoughts, wishing that he could wash his hands of the disturbed man sitting in front of him. The doctors had all agreed pretty readily that the guy was as crazy as they come but with the recent incarceration of Dr. Crane, the D.A.'s office wasn't quite ready to take their chances, especially with a heinous crime like this one. Still, he wished that it didn't have to be his call.

"_Harveey._" Jack said his name, with a sing-song voice. "Whacha got there?" He nodded his head at the coin in his hand. Harvey, becoming suddenly aware of the object's presence, quickly stuffed the coin in his pocket.

"Nothing," he said a little too quickly, a little too defensively. "Why don't you-"

"I'll flip you for it."

Harvey's eyes shot to Jack's, whose gaze twinkled with malicious mischief. "What?"

"I'll. Flip." He made a motion with his thumb. "You. For. It." He gave Harvey an inviting glance and continued, "Heads, you write up those," he waved his hands in the direction of the briefcase, his fingers' wiggling, "commitment papers. Tails, I head off to county, forever and ever…amen."

Harvey immediately scoffed at the idea. "Now why would I want to go and do something as idiotic as that? Rest the fate of a man's life on a silly little coin? Risk being fired, even disbarred? Why would I even consider it?"

"Because," he spoke in a soft voice, the snake whispering sweet nothings into Eve's ears, "it's fair." He pulled away and gave Harvey a triumphant smile. "Fifty-fifty both ways. Leave it all in the hands of the universe, let _it_ decide who is…worthy and who isn't." He leaned back in the chair, settling into the hard, cold steel. "Chaos and death…the great equalizers. When a man's life is at stake…that…that's when you'll see who he really is." A gleefully sinister look came over his countenance washing away any trace of humanity from his dark eyes. "Let'ssss say…for example…if I was able to get out of these," he wiggled his hands and rattled the cuffs that bound him tight. "And let's say, for argument's sake, that I had been able _slip_ my razorblade by that moronic guard standing out there." He gestured towards the closed cell door. "Let's say all of that was already in effect." Every hair on Harvey's neck prickled at the man's tale, he could feel his adrenaline pumping up but was unable to move, paralyzed by Jack's almost hypnotic voice. "Now if I happened…within the next few minutes…to hold you by the throat and pressed the cold steel of the razor against your jugular vein…well, in those few minutes I would be able to see everything you were, everything you are, and everything you would never get to be. All because of chaos…" he paused and as an afterthought added, "…and dear ol' death." He licked his lips, his tongue making a streak of saliva on each side of his mouth that caught the light in a particular way as to give the illusion of a macabre smile. "So, Harvey. What do you say?"

Harvey stared at the criminal sitting across from him and fear coiled and twisted in his gut. He felt a strange emotion wash over him, something so foreign that he was, at first, unable to name it. Hate. Hate and fear. He had never felt such a combination of emotions before and it was unsettling. Harvey wanted, no needed, to get away from this man; he could feel his sanity being chipped away and he was desperate for relief. With little more thought, he pulled the coin from his pocket. Careful not to expose the second heads side, he held up the coin. "How do I know you'll keep your promise?"

Jack, surprisingly, was serious. "You don't…but I always keep my promises."

He tried to gauge his level of honesty but was at a loss, unable to read even the slightest hint of emotion on his blank face. Eventually he placed the coin on his thumb, situated carefully on the crease he created with his hand. Without a word of commencement, he flipped the coin expertly into the air. For a moment, Harvey watched the arc of the coin, watched it as it flew through the air, and he couldn't help but feel that, with the flip of that small insignificant coin, he was losing something irretrievable to his humanity. He knew that by giving up his choice, by depending, even if for only a second, on the coin; he was becoming something less than a man. But, he refused to think such thoughts, and pushed them away by the time the coin returned to his hand. Offering his hand to Jack, he slowly revealed its decision.

The only reaction he got was laughter. Hysterical, nightmare inducing, horrifying laughter. Laughter that he heard long after he left the cell. Long after he left Arkham. He heard the laughter even as he ascended the stone steps of City Hall, casually flipping his father's lucky coin.

AN: So what did you think? Good? Bad? Horrible? I want to know. Oh, and I already am half way through the last chapter so there won't be a hugely long wait. Up next...Any guy who runs around dressed up as a bat clearly has issues.


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